


The Family Way

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Euphemisms, F/M, Homosexuality, Husbands, M/M, Marriage, Polyamory Negotiations, Pregnancy, Victorian Attitudes, Wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 22:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: “As far as I can tell, men do not use their brains much at all, at least where lust is concerned.”Mary Watson gets her way.





	The Family Way

I met John Watson when I first sought the services of Mr Sherlock Holmes to find out what had happened to my father, and the meaning of the rather large pearls I had been sent. Doctor Watson was of great service to me in this adventure. He is a complete gentleman, and was at hand when I most needed support throughout these gruelling and ultimately disappointing events.

When it was clear that any fortune I might have hoped for was irretrievably lost, he asked permission to court me. I granted this privilege, convinced that he was a man of courtesy and honour. It did not hurt the progress of my feelings that he is also quite handsome. Indeed, he seemed an ideal husband.

Our courtship was long, as he sought to establish himself in private practice, so as not to rely upon his friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, for income. I did not mind, though at the fairly advanced age of twenty-five, I knew that there were not many fertile years ahead of me. My own mother had died of cancer at a shockingly early age, and I did not want to wait too long before I undertook to produce a family for my husband.

It was after the dreadful events of 1891 that he finally proposed that we marry. He was bereft by his companion’s death and utterly alone, his closest family having long ago passed away. Our weddingwas a hurried affair, but proper. We settled into a house in Kensington and he resumed the practice he had put on hold during their last, unhappy case.

As attentive as he had been to me during our courtship (except for several periods when he was involved with Mr Holmes in a case), after our marriage, he soon became listless and obviously unhappy.

On our wedding night, an event I had long anticipated, he slept on the sofa in our sitting room. Because he’d had a quantity of drink that evening, I thought little of it. But I had been schooled in what a new wife should expect of her husband, and though the instruction I’d received did not go into great detail, I had anticipated something more. My dear friend Betsy had related to me the shock of her wedding night, confronted for the first time with the necessity of carnal relations, and I had steeled myself for a similar assault. I slept intact that night.

Things were pleasant between us during the daytime. We enjoyed one another’s company at meals, tended to our individual tasks between, and at night wished one another sweet dreams. He would make some excuse— a chart to update, a letter to write, an article to read— promise to be up to bed soon, but in the morning I inevitably awoke alone.

Though the notion of sexual congress had intimidated me, I felt deprived. Indeed, it had been years since I believed that babies grew under cabbage leaves or were brought by the stork. I know that the conception of a child depends on having two adults, male and female, recumbent in the same bed. Was there to be no issue to our marriage? How was I to produce heirs for my husband if he would not climb into bed next to me?

I as yet had no idea that the difficulty could lie with anyone but me. I was not what he had expected or desired in a wife, I supposed. My friend Betsy suggested that drink might be the problem, that it might inhibit his ability to achieve the necessary turgescence, which is apparently (according to Betsy) a prerequisite for amorous conjunction. My husband, however, did not drink excessively, as far as I could tell.

Then Mr Holmes returned, and my dear John seemed to come back to life. Where formerly he was content to spend an evening in my company, drinking his port, smoking a cigar,and reading a medical journal, he now was happy to run out into the night, chasing criminals with Mr Holmes. He no longer seemed listless and melancholy. He was alive.

Mr Holmes dined with us once a week. I made sure that these dinners reflected the best abilities of our cook. After dinner, he and my John would sit in his study talking over all matter of things. I never saw their attention to one another flag. Most nights I went up to sleep while they were still at it, discussing the latest case or some other aspect of criminal theory. I would lie awake, hearing their laughter, thinking that I had somehow failed him.

It was on such an evening that I descended the stairs, determined to say a word to him. I did not yet know what this word might be, but I felt something was due. Quiet had fallen on our house, and I assumed that Mr Holmes had taken his leave. I was, therefore, startled to find them still in John’s study, though no longer conversing.

I am relieved that I did not cry out at what I witnessed. I have enough natural caution to pass for a brave woman, but what I saw was both puzzling and horrifying. John lounged on his chair, and Mr Holmes was kneeling at his feet. I thought at first that my husband had fainted or had some kind of fit, for he moaned most pitiably and begged Mr Holmes— _Sherlock, oh, God, Sherlock!_ What he begged for was not within the scope of my faculties to discern. He then seemed to go into a kind of seizure, from which he soon recovered, still calling on his friend. Mr Holmes raised his head then, and I could see him smile. He rose up, straddled John’s lap, and began to kiss my husband.

I have since learned about inversion, which explains a great deal. Betsy tells me that some men have an affinity for other men. They do not seek women, as is natural, but desire to converge physically with other men. This made perfect sense when she explained it, though it did not explain why John had sought marriage with me.

“My dear Mary,” said Betsy. “What a goose you are! Men cannot show their inversion, but must conceal it. You are what one might call his _beard._ A man will not be suspected of inversion or buggery—”

(Here ensued an explanation of the term _buggery_ , which only served to further horrify me. I find it disturbing to imagine that my John has been using his _member_ in such a fashion. I understand now that the male sex does not think of these matters as women do. As far as I can tell, men do not use their brains much at all, at least where lust is concerned.)

“— if only he has a wife!” She paused to let the effect of this sink in.

My Betsy complains that her husband has numerous mistresses, in spite of her nightly sacrifices and the production of five healthy heirs (none of whom were found under cabbage leaves). This is the price she pays for a strong and loving marriage.

But my own husband has been shirking his duty to me. To Mr Holmes, I am sure he has been a good wife, or husband, or whatever role he plays in their relations.

And though I did not crave marital relations, I understood where my power lay.

I waited until an evening when Mr Holmes stayed to dinner and laid my trap. They were well into cigars and brandy when I made my entrance into the study.

Ever the dutiful wife, I knocked demurely and begged his indulgence for a moment.

“But of course, my dear,” he said. “Mr Holmes and I are merely rattling on about things that would only bore you. Pray, what can I do for you, love?”

“Dear husband,” I said. “I know that I am innocent of many things, but I believe I have at last divined the reason for my barrenness. I desire a child, my dear, an heir for you and a comfort to me in my old age. For that, I require the attentions of your _priapus_.”

This incited a spate of coughing so severe that it brought tears to his eyes. As he recovered, he set down his cigar and looked at Holmes, who was pretending to study the pattern of the wallpaper.

“Or perhaps you and Mr Holmes can solve this mystery,” I said. “You have certainly been hard at work with one another. I believe, though, that the enterprise I have in mind will require a _womb_ , something you both lack.”

Mr Holmes turned scarlet and my John choked on the swallow of brandy he had just taken, presumably to quiet his nerves. “My dear—” he began.

“I will expect one of you in my bed in the next ten minutes,” I said. “I don’t particularly care which. You may both give it a try, if you wish. But until I am with child, I expect nightly attentions from a _membrum virile_.”

Thereafter, I received regular visitors to my bed. If not enthusiastic, they have at least been dutiful. Our three children will soon be joined by a fourth.


End file.
